Exposed
by NairobiWonders
Summary: Joan gets tired of being called a prude by Sherlock. Fluffy joanlock with nudity (not too explicit), let me know if you think it should be rated differently. I had some requests for a little bit more to this story, so I've added a second chapter continuing from right where we left off.
1. Chapter 1

She lingered under the warm covers with the hope that Sherlock would show up with a breakfast tray. No doubt about it, she was getting spoiled. For the most part, the man was a pain to live with, but there were many pleasures of their friendship that few, if any, on the outside understood. Joan finally scolded herself into movement, checked her phone, stretched and began her day. Shower first, then breakfast. Sherlock must be out or he would have been rattling her cage long before this.

She yawned and opened the door to the bathroom. Her entry was met with a cheery "Ah Watson! You're up!" from a completely naked Sherlock. He was running a towel over his head, water still dripping from the rest of him making little puddles on the floor. "Why doesn't he put a towel down dammit," she thought, quickly followed by "oh my god he's naked."

Joan stared, unable to formulate words. Her focus was involuntarily channeled into admiration of the body in front of her. Living day to day with Sherlock, she had come to think of him not as a man but as her best friend. She relegated the thoughts of him as an attractive male to darker recesses, to be solitarily explored and then stored away again. As he stood there so casually naked, so perfectly proportioned, so hairy chested and tattooed, she could do little else but stare at the parts of him she usually didn't have access to, storing those for future reference.

She suddenly came to her senses, looked up to his face where she found a quizzical expression that was on its way to becoming a smirk.

"Sorry, I didn't know you were in here," her voice trailed off. Sherlock's smirk became a condescending grimace. Joan averted her eyes, backed out and moved to close the door behind her. Oh how she hated that superior look on his face. This incident was going to be more fuel for his "Watson is a Victorian prude" smart assery. She had put up with his taunting about her puritan American ways long enough. Joan was no prude. Anger took over. Re-opening the door, she faced Sherlock and gave him a tight lipped smile. If she maintained eye contact rather than letting her eyes stray perhaps she could do this.

He looked mockingly surprised as he dried his shoulders and back, "Forget something?" he asked with forced innocence. Sherlock knew how uncomfortable she was with nudity and he was enjoying her discomfort.

Joan walked towards him, gracefully extending her hand, "Give me," she said. Surprised, he handed her the towel. "Turn around," she ordered. Her tone was matter of fact, no hint of the tenseness she felt. She dried his back as she would dry a toddler after a warm bath, but for her sake stuck to the shoulders and upper back. Sherlock began to catch on to what she was attempting to do. "You missed a spot," he said over his shoulder pointing to his lower back and posterior.

"You can get the rest yourself," she pushed the towel back into his hands. "I need to get going," she stared at him. "You don't mind if I shower while you finish do you?" His eyes widened before he could control them. A little nostril flare gave her further proof that she was gaining the upper hand.

"No, no, go right ahead." He said as he took a step back, calling her bluff.

She gave him a casual once-over. Sherlock was still naked but carefully holding the towel in front of himself, nonchalantly obstructing her view of the barometer of his interest.

Joan was not about to back down. He taunted her with a twist of his lips and a raise of his eyebrows. "Hell," she thought "I'm doing it." Turning the shower knobs, she started the water. She turned and stared him right in the eye, her hands moving to find the elastic waistband of her shorts. Maintaining eye contact with him, she pulled her shorts and panties down and off in one movement and dropped them to the floor. His breath quickened, his shoulder twitched and his eyes quickly darted down to confirm the removal of her bottoms and up to check whether any exposure had been achieved. Her green pajama top was long enough to provide adequate coverage, nothing was exposed. He regained his composure and fidgeted with the towel in his hand.

"Don't let me stop you ..." she said to him, motioning to his clothes.

"Oh I'm fine," he wouldn't back down either. She was not going to win. He was not uncomfortable with nudity even if it was Watson who stood before him ... with her shorts and panties on the floor ... between them... "Oh good god," he thought, "don't look at the lacy undies..." He twisted the towel in his hands and started reciting the periodic table in reverse alphabetical order to himself.

Joan knew how protective Sherlock felt about her and wondered how far he would let her go before his more chivalrous nature took over. Only one way to find out. On the pretense of testing the water temperature, she turned, stretched over the tub and purposely flashed a little cheek at him. He took a deep breath and looked away quickly and then back again. This was Watson, he couldn't ... "She won't go through with this, I know my Watson," he thought, as he cracked his neck and calmed the twitching in his hands.

Joan wasn't a hundred percent sure she was going to be able to do this. Steam rose from the tub beside her. She turned once more towards him, locked her eyes to his challengingly. Her fingers found the hem of her shirt, and played at slightly rolling the shirt upwards. Sherlock stood firm. With a deep breath, Joan grabbed her shirt and pulled it off in one movement. His heart pounded, he lunged forward to stop her, "Watson, enough ... enough, you win," he said. "You've made you're point." Too late. She stood naked before him, shirt dangling in her hand.

Sherlock slowly reached for her shirt and her hand. She was perfection in body and spirit. The white noise of the rushing water and their breathing the only sounds as they stared at one another, bodies almost touching. What had started out as a silly game suddenly turned serious.

The flush of excitement faded as Joan realized she and Sherlock were too close, too emotionally exposed. Intellect and emotions battled for control within her. She knew she needed to step back but couldn't compel her body to do so.

Sherlock was waging an interior battle of his own. There was no hiding how his body was betraying him... but this ... this was Watson, his closest and truest friend, she had saved him, restored life to him, he could not be cavalier with her. He knew they were standing at the edge of a sheer cliff together, but he too could not back away.

"See, this is why we don't get naked around each other," Joan whispered. He looked deeply into her eyes, took a breath, and nodded his head. His lips parted but words would not come to him.

Sherlock dropped her shirt and tentatively moved his hand to her bare waist, letting his thumb find her hip bone and allowing his fingers to softly linger on her skin. He looked to her face for permission. Her eyes closed at his touch as she felt herself disappear into him for the briefest of seconds.

"I'm not going to be able to control myself much longer," his words came almost inaudible.

Her hand found his small snake tattoo, the one that slithered upwards from below his hip, and lightly traced it. With that touch, they fell into each other, soft meeting hard, sinuous arms tightening around her. His open mouth found her lips, her neck, feasted on the pleasure of her skin, her scent, her taste. Joan held him tighter and tighter as waves of gratifying warmth undulated through her with each touch of his lips, his body hard against hers. She grabbed his head and burrowed her face in the crook of his neck, her breath ragged and hot against his skin.

"We shouldn't ... Not like this ... Tell me to stop, " the words spilled haltingly, unwillingly, from Sherlock's mouth muffled against her skin.

Joan pulled his face away from her breast, holding him tenderly, forcing him to look at her. She studied his face, "Perhaps you're right, this isn't how we should ... perhaps we shouldn't ever ..." the words were murmured against his mouth. "But you and I never been known for doing what we should, have we?" He felt her hands caressing him, urging him back to her, her eyes smoldering with passion. A small smile crossed his face as emotion swelled within him. "Yes," he thought, "she is my Watson." His lips crushed hers as his hands pulled her towards him once more.


	2. Chapter 2

They did not make it to Joan's bedroom. In the heat of passion, Sherlock, without ever letting go of Watson, dropped every towel within arms reach to the bathroom floor. He lowered himself on to them and took Watson down with him. Water still gushed into the tub, steam billowed, but both were oblivious to anything other than the connection they were forging.

Breath and heart beats synchronized as they found their rhythm. Heat, sweat, lust welded their bodies into one. Months of repressed desire finally found release...

She lay spent on his chest savoring the feel of him underneath her. Every breath he took brought her pleasure. Sherlock rapturously felt the curves of her body pressed against his. He'd found his home within her. He held her tightly, afraid she'd disappear if he let go. Intertwined they laid content beyond all measure.

Joan raised her arms to his shoulders and slid up, needing to kiss him once more. He responded eagerly, threaded his hand through her hair and pulled her to him, deepening the kiss. They parted to take a breath and Joan noticed his wince.

"What's wrong?" she asked afraid she had hurt him.

"Nothing, the floor is just uh... I think my ass is now tessellated," he said with a small smile.

She maneuvered herself and him so she could take a look at his back side. The towels had moved and yes, he was laying straight on the floor. And yes, he was right, the bathroom tile pattern was neatly embossed on his rear. "Definite tessellation," she said in her best bedside manner.

Peels of laughter erupted from both of them. The ridiculousness of how they had ended up in this situation was not lost on either of them. "Could you kiss it and make it better," he cheekily asked. Joan smirked at him, gently rubbed at the tile marks, lowered her head as if to bestow a kiss but instead gave him a good, hard bite. Sherlock howled in enjoyable pain and laughed. She fell back on top of him. The ease with which they had accepted this new level of physical intimacy surprised and pleased her.

She kissed a trail from his hairy chest up to his mouth, "I promise, next time, you can be on top ..." she said as she kissed him once more.

He grew quiet as he looked into her eyes, the import of her words sinking in. "Next time..." he repeated quietly.

Joan stammered, "I mean, if you ... We don't ... I just thought..." feeling suddenly very insecure, she attempted to pick herself up and off of him.

"Watson, Watson no." He guided her back on top and held her firmly against him. He spoke in almost a whisper, "I was just relishing the words ... 'next time' ... and the time after that ... and the time after that ..." He brought his mouth to her ear, whispering only for her, "... and forever." They lay tucked into each other trying to extend the moment just a little longer.

A phone was ringing somewhere in the house. Sherlock stirred, "Ugh. The outside world demands attention." Joan lifted herself from him and moved to turn off the water. "We are going to have a hell of large water bill next month," she said.

"Money well spent Watson, money well spent."

She bent to help him pick up the towels. "Are we going to be okay?"

Sherlock looked at her, his eyes large and tender. His hand found hers and was met by a warm caress. His face softened. She inched forward. "Maybe we can talk tonight," she said.

He grimaced and withdrew his hand from hers, "No. No talking. There are plenty of other things we can do tonight." He gave her a quirk of a smile, a waggle of his eyebrows and moved towards the bathroom door. Joan threw a towel at his back, "Hey, cover yourself up, you know how much of a prude I am," she smiled.

He grabbed the towel, "Watson, after what you did to me..." he pointed to the floor, "with the uhm," he twirled a finger towards her, " ... and your uhm ..." he closed his eyes and took a breath, flustered for a second at reliving the experience. "Let's just say you can no longer lay claim to the title of 'prude'." Joan ducked her head down and to the side, slightly embarrassed but even more pleased. Sherlock threw the towel over his shoulders and went off to find the offending phone.


End file.
